May 16, 2094
by Berytni
Summary: On the three year anniversary of Artie's death, Tina finds an article in the newspaper that would have made her deceased husband proud, and so she shows it to him the only way she knows how.


**A/N: _While transferring files to my new computer, I found this little one-shot, and was encouraged by Sarah to finish it. It's in Tina's POV, by the way. If you're one of my Amazing Grace readers, I think you'll especially like this one. That's all I have to say. Until next time, my lovelies_.  
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><p>Three years after Artie's death, treatments for spinal cord injuries hit their peak. I remember sitting at our worn down kitchen table with a cup of orange pekoe tea in one hand, and a folded over copy of the <em>Lima Times<em> for May 16, 2094 in the other. Many things are printed in newspapers. The anticipated weather, big news from around the globe, and even advice are fine examples. However, wedged in the bottom left corner of the _Life and Science_ section was an article about a particular young man. His face, somewhat distorted from the printing process, was plastered next to a text box that summarized his first baby steps eight years after being confined to a wheelchair. The gentleman, aged nineteen, was paralyzed from the waist down eight years prior. Eighty-five percent of the function lost after his spinal cord was severed has been regained. I'm astounded, shocked even. _The Lima Times_, however, does not share my opinion, and the story is hidden to most. If it were up to me, It would be the cover story. Even if Artie had been alive, it would have been too late for him anyways, his bones were brittle and his heart was weak, but he would have died a happy man to see a fellow wheelchair user accomplish what he had desired his whole life. That's just who he was.

With a sigh, I fold the paper back into quadrants and lay it down on the table top before taking a sip from my mug. The heat from the think glass transfers into my stone cold and veiny hands. The story had been published on the three year anniversary of Artie's death, which is almost too ironic for me to handle. Out of the other 364 days in a year, May 16th is the only day I wish would never come again – the loss is unbearable, and it only reminds me that until the day of my own death, I'll be alone and without him.

I planned to visit Artie that afternoon to pay my condolences. Ever since his passing, it became a tradition of mine. Using the table I push myself to a slouched, but vertical, stand and walk over to the sink where I place my half-finished cup of tea among my other breakfast dishes. After drying my hand off with a towel, I shuffle though the living room, and down the hall until I reach or bedroom. It's a petite room plastered in dull yellow wallpaper that's beginning to lose its hold. A queen sized bed, only partially made, sits in the middle of the room. I walk over and pull my side of the comforter under the pillow and smooth the winkles out with my hand. Artie's side is rarely touched, and only a year ago I had worked up the courage to bring or bedding to the Laundromat for a cleaning. His pillow, however, I will never let go, for his sent still lingers in the cotton.

It took me months to find a place to store Artie's wheelchair. Leaving it in plain sight just depressed me, so I tucked it away into the garage, where I would only have to come in counter with it a few times a week. It's less flamboyant than the one he used in his younger days, but even up to the day he died, he insisted on having fore-wheels that lit up like a pair of Velcro sneaker designed for children. Some things never change.

Before getting into the car, I pick a small bouquet of daisies that pop up consecutively every year. I also cut out the newspaper article about the nineteen-year-old boy and neatly fold it into the outside pocket of my jacket. He'd want to know – even now.

Unlike many things of the past, Artie's death is still very clear in my mind, and I think half mindedly about it all the way up to the cemetery where he's rested. With his condition, Artie was prone to blood clots, but neither of us predicted that one would travel up to his heart. There was nothing I could have done even if I had been home, I was told that the clot killed him instantly, but I'll never forgive myself for not being around during his last few moments. I'll never forgive myself for not saying goodbye.

Except for the fact that my late husband is buried here, there's nothing otherwise special about the Memorial Park Cemetery in South-East Lima. The landscape consists of nearly trimmed grass and peaceful looking trees and shrubs dispersed randomly between the neatly spaced tomb stones of various shapes and sizes. I slowly drive up the grassy path that circles around the property until his plot is in view. I get out of the car and maze around the other stones until I reach the only one I have a connection to. With his full name, life span, and three lines about his life engraved on the front, the stone is as gray as the sky over head.

"Hello Arthur," I softly say, carefully bending over to place the daisies at the foot of the stone where the grass is slightly overgrown.

I stand over his plot with my head down and my eyes closed for a few minutes before slowly getting down on the ground. I face him at an angle and tuck my legs underneath me with a sigh. With my fingers tangled in the grass, I tell him how things are back home – how much I miss him and how our daughter, Grace, is doing. Before I even left the house, I told myself that I wouldn't cry, but I always tell myself that whenever I come to visit. Not once have I stayed true to my word.

"This was in the paper this morning," I say, reaching into my pocked with a sniff. With shaky hands, I unfold the piece of newsprint and flatten it out on my thigh. "This is the news we've been waiting for, Art. They're finally able to help people. This-this boy can walk now – oh Artie, what I would give to see your face. You'd be so happy. Everything we researched when we were young…it's possible now."

I read him the article and try to imagine his smiling face at the news. I'm forced to wipe my eyes between paragraphs. When I finish reading, I sigh and pick up an oval shaped stone near my foot. Next to the stems of the daisies, I place the newspaper cut out on the grass, and anchor it down with the rock. Before getting up to leave, I lean forward and kiss the top of the granite stone before using it to help me and my weak joints off the ground.

Once I'm erect, I notice that the area around me starts to get lighter, and my shadow greets me from down below. I look up at the sky and see rays of sunlight passing though the overcast clouds just overhead.

"Hello Arthur," I repeat with a smile.


End file.
